“Dain?” Sir Terent said in alarm. “In Thod’s name, stay with—”
His voice faded. Dain struggled against the darkness and opened his eyes as wide as he could. The last thing he saw was the face of the dead boy, now being covered with a cloth by some of the servants. Then all went blank for Dain, and he knew nothing more.
Caught between the two attacking hurlhounds, Alexeika screamed and swung her stick at the closest one. As she did so, all her fear and anger suddenly coalesced inside her and channeled forth. The stick burst into flames, scorching her hands and burning the hurlhound she struck with it. Yelping, it veered off.
Unable to hold her fiery weapon, Alexeika threw it at the second monster and missed. Crying out, she ducked just as the hurlhound’s snapping jaws closed on thin air.
“Regsnik!” commanded a gruff voice.
The hurlhounds snarled but retreated at once.
Breathing hard, her hair hanging in her face, Alexeika lay on the ground, unable to believe she was still alive. Her body was tense and trembling, but slowly she realized the hurlhounds were not going to tear her apart. Another creature rumbled and snorted behind her. When Alexeika managed to pull herself up and look, she saw a rider on a darsteed at the edge of the clearing. Tall and long-legged, with cloven hooves and a hide of black scales that glittered in the sun, the darsteed’s red eyes glared balefully at her while smoke rumbled from its nostrils.
Its rider looked to be a man, but Alexeika was not sure. Clad in blood-red mail and a breastplate embossed with arcane symbols that hurt her eyes, he stared at her through his helmet visor. Much of him remained in the shade, and she could see no glimpse of his eyes.
He was either Nonkind or a Believer. Both were supremely dangerous. Her mouth went dry, and her heart pounded so hard she felt dizzy. The two hurlhounds still crouched on either side of her, menace in their eyes as they waited for permission to attack.
Shuddering, she forced herself to stand up. She faced the rider with all the courage she could.
“Let me go,” she said.
He made no response. Her fear flared anew, for if he was Nonkind that meant he was nothing but an animated corpse, soulless and controlled by a Believer somewhere nearby. Alexeika had grown up on tales of entire battlefields of dead men rising forth to serve the Believers of Gant. Such gruesome creatures could fight endlessly against mortals. They could not be killed by normal means. They did not tire. They would not flee in disarray.
Yet this rider had spoken a command to the hurlhounds. Surely he was not one of the dead if he could do that.
“Let me go,” she said again, more loudly this time.
The rider lifted his gloved hand and pointed at her. “Sorcerelle,” he said. His voice sounded like a file rasping on bone. “You are sorcerelle of much power.” “I am not.”
He chuckled, the sound muffled and dreadful inside his helmet. “You lie, Chalice hunter. Power has been wielded. It is how I found you.” Uzfan’s warning ran through her mind. He was right; her few erratic powers had drawn the Nonkind to her. Alexeika frowned. How she wished Uzfan was here to cast a spell to drive this Believer away.
“Chalice hunter, come,” the Believer said. “You are mine now. Come.” Alexeika frowned in refusal. Were the gods this unkind, to let her escape the Grethori only to fall into worse hands? “No!” she said. “I will not be a Gantese slave!”
Smoke blew out through the Believer’s visor. He pointed. “Obey!”
“I will not.”
“Then you die.”
The hurlhounds growled, edging closer. The threat in their glowing eyes and slavering jaws vanquished her defiance. She did not want to die. Not like this. If she tried to run the hurlhounds would bring her down. Without her pearl-handled daggers she lacked even the slimmest of fighting chances. There was nothing she could do but obey her new master.
Trying to hide her despair, she crossed the clearing and went to the Believer. The hot stink of the darsteed’s fetid breath sickened her. Without warning it lunged at her with a snap of its poisonous fangs.
Screaming, Alexeika dodged, and its jaws missed her by a scant inch. Shouting angrily, the Believer pulled back on the reins and cursed his mount. In that moment, an arrow sang forth from the woods and thudded into the Believer’s breastplate. It bounced off, but the Believer stood up in his stirrups with a shout of alarm. He drew his sword, and Alexeika jumped into the undergrowth, out of the way, as the darsteed galloped forward. From the same direction as the arrow came a rough mountain pony, bursting from the thicket with Holoc on its back.
The chieftain, gaunt-eyed and fierce, rode full-tilt, with Severgard in his hands instead of his usual pair of scimitars. The magicked blade of Prince Volvn’s weapon glowed white in the presence of the Believer and his Nonkind beasts. Shouting Grethori curses, his long, skull-adorned braids bouncing on his shoulders, Holoc charged the Believer fearlessly.
Black sword met white with a tremendous crash that echoed through the forest and sent a flock of keebacks flying out of the trees. The Believer’s sword shattered under the first blow, and he reeled back in his saddle. Snarling, the hurlhounds sprang toward Holoc, parting to attack him from separate sides. Knowing he could not prevail against them all, Alexeika picked up a stout branch off the ground and jumped from the bushes. She hurled the stick with all her might, and her aim was true. It bounced off the skull of one of the hurlhounds and deflected it from sinking its fangs into Holoc’s leg.
He swung Severgard at the other hurlhound, cutting the creature in half. Poisonous black blood spewed while the two halves of the monster writhed on the ground.
Shouting Gantese death curses that popped and flashed in the air, the Believer thrust the jagged end of his broken sword into Holoc’s bronzed, bare arm. Yelling, Holoc twisted in the saddle and swung Severgard around. The glowing white blade sliced through red mail, popping links, and took off the Believer’s head.
Still in its helmet, the head went rolling over the ground in a trail of blood and gout, and came to rest at Alexeika’s feet.
The remaining hurlhound and darsteed vanished into thin air, leaving only sparks and their evil stench behind.
Silence fell over the clearing, broken only by the sound of Holoc’s panting. Alexeika stared at him for a long moment, amazed that he’d rescued her. His brown, savage face—handsome by the standards of his people—stared back at her with a combination of lust and triumph.
Her sense of relief quickly faded, and she realized Vika was right: Holoc would pursue her forever.
Fresh despair filled her. There must be some way to break the spell on him, though appeals and reason, she knew, would not work. Perhaps nothing would. Holoc kicked his pony forward, coming straight to her, his bloody sword lying across the front of his saddle. Blood streamed down his wounded arm, but he seemed not to notice his injury.
Alexeika told herself to run, to get away, but her feet seemed frozen to the ground. She’d been through too much. Her mind had gone blank, and she knew only weariness and a clawing sense of desperation.
“Mine,” Holoc said in triumph. With a gesture of bravado, he threw Severgard between them. Its point struck the ground and lodged there, quivering upright. A corner of her heart raged at seeing that noble blade dishonored so. Holoc was a savage, too ignorant to fully appreciate the qualities of the weapon he’d stolen. None of the scimitars or daggers in the village had been cared for. A Grethori warrior never cleaned his blade. When the weapon rusted or grew too nicked to use, it was discarded. After all, a true Grethori warrior could always steal another one. But if he ruined Severgard, he would never obtain another sword like it. She supposed he did not care.
Holoc dismounted, then swaggered up to her. His dark eyes burned hot and intense.
“Mine,” he grunted again, and reached for her.
With a cry, she whirled away, but he was too quick. Gripping her arms, he slammed her against a tree trunk and pinned her there with his body. He kissed her roughly, murmuring words she did not understand. She tried to fight him, but she could not break free. His hands were everywhere, his mouth masterful and cruel. She slapped him, then tried to scratch his face, but he only laughed and ripped open the neck of her robe. She thought of the sheda’s prophecy and the spell the old crone had woven over Holoc. Defiance grew inside Alexeika, burning away her terror. She would not submit to this. She would not bear this man’s child or live as his slave, a cowed despicable thing to be used as he pleased and then discarded. His rough hands finished ripping open her robe, exposing her slender body to him. For a moment he only stared at her, then he laughed low in his throat. It was an arrogant, evil, bestial sound that snapped the last of her hesitation. As he gripped her with his cruel hands, grinding his body against her, Alexeika reached sideways for the hilt of Severgard and just managed to grab it. His mouth was hot on hers, and she bit his lip with all her might. He swore, jerking back his head, and with a shout she pulled the sword from the ground and swung it at Holoc.
At such close range, the blow was clumsy. She hit his back with the midsection of the blade, nearer the hilt than the tip.
Nevertheless, Severgard sliced through his fur jerkin and drew blood. Spitting blood and cursing, Holoc spun around to evade the sword. Blood was running down his back, but he ignored it.
Alexeika moved quickly away from the tree where she’d been pinned. Her robe hung open, exposing her body, but she made no effort to hide herself. She gripped Severgard’s hilt with both hands, brandishing the sword, and prayed to the spirit of her dead father to strengthen her.
Holoc began to laugh. His eyes burned with the madness of the spell. “To fight is better, my woman-man demon. Fight me like man! It will make the conquering of your woman side much sweeter. Fight me, but still you are mine. The sheda has made it so.”
Alexeika forced herself to laugh back in defiance, although the sound that issued from her throat was grim and harsh. “Your sheda picked the wrong maiden for you.”
With all her will she focused on Severgard, mouthing the words of power that she’d once heard Uzfan say over it on her father’s behalf. The weapon’s blade began to glow white, and she felt power thrumming through its hilt into her hands. With a toss of her head, Alexeika’s confidence came back. Uzfan was wrong. She could control her powers, after all. She could be trained. She could be a sorcerelle if she chose to be.
Holoc’s eyes widened a little, and his laughter died. Sanity almost returned to his face.
Alexeika bared her teeth at him. “You forgot my demon side,” she said, using his superstitions to taunt him. “Will you force me to recall my dire companions?” His eyes widened still more. She knew she had made him believe that the hurlhounds were hers to command. Making that claim was blasphemous, but Alexeika felt reckless and wild.
“You have come alone to my forest, Grethori,” she said. “You are at my mercy now.”
He swayed as he stared at her, and braced his feet wider apart. He had begun to look pale, either from fear or the blood he was losing. He said nothing. “When the hurlhounds return to feed on your flesh, I will watch and laugh at my enemy,” she told him. “The one who dared think I was his to command.” “Demon,” he whispered.
Alexeika smiled, thinking that if she pretended to cast a spell, he would panic and flee from her.
She reached toward the sky as if grasping something.
“Now begins my spell, Holoc. See if you like it better than the sheda’s.” Her confidence had taken her too far. He stepped back, muttering something hoarsely, but she’d forgotten that no Grethori ever fled in fear. When cornered, he would fight to the death if necessary.
Holoc bent his head so that his braids and skulls clacked together, and drew his dagger. Quicker than thought, he sprang at her.
Caught off guard, she pivoted instinctively on her back foot and swung Severgard up and toward him.
Holoc’s charge ran him onto the sword. Blood spewed, and his head tipped back in a silent scream. His eyes opened wide, but he was dead already. When she drew out her sword, his body crumpled at her feet.
Alexeika uttered a soundless little cry and staggered back. Turning away, she pressed her hand against her mouth.
That’s when all of it, the long ordeal that had started weeks ago with Draysinko’s betrayal of their camp to the Grethori raiders, overwhelmed her. Perhaps she went mad for a little while, there in the forest. She walked around and around brandishing Severgard at the two corpses and weeping. But at long last, when the shadows of afternoon began to slant through the trees, she stopped and lifted her face to the sky. Sinking to her knees, she prayed her gratitude for the mercy of the gods. Then she gathered up dagger and sword and stripped Holoc’s clothing from his body.
Stripping off her own clothing, she pressed Severgard’s blade to her bite. The steel flashed white, and the heat as its power cauterized her wound made her cry out. Gritting her teeth, she breathed hard and fast for a moment while her eyes streamed with tears of pain, but at least the hurlhound venom was gone from her. When she felt strong enough to move, she lowered herself into the clean cold waters of the fjord and bathed until her body felt nearly frozen, but renewed. After she threw the torn Grethori robe into the bushes, she knelt at the water’s edge to scrub and pound the blood from Holoc’s leggings and jerkin. Leaving the clothing draped on tree limbs to dry, she walked naked up the bank and stripped off the Believer’s mail. When she finished cleaning it by dragging it through water and sand, she laid it on the ground to dry while she scrubbed and polished Severgard.
She felt conscious of weariness and hunger, but her mind remained clear and calm. As she worked, she sang one of her father’s old battle songs, softly. She was no longer the Alexeika she had been. Reborn, she felt a hundred years old, instead of eighteen. Her father used to talk of a warrior’s first battle—how it was a trial by fire, how it separated those who would survive from those who would perish. Now she knew how to survive. She thought of the different life she could have lived had fate been kinder to her family. She would have worn beautiful gowns and sat decoratively at court. Or perhaps by now she would have been married, with expectations of children and a long productive life spent managing her husband’s household. But such a life would never be hers. Her path was taking her along a far different journey. By nightfall, Alexeika wore the leggings and hauberk of a man. Although she did not cut her hair, she braided it tightly up against her neck in warrior fashion. She owned two daggers again, Holoc’s and the Believer’s. The Believer’s broken sword she had flung as far as possible into the fjord, along with his head. The bodies she did not bury. Instead, she covered them with branches and leaves that she set afire with the strike box found in Holoc’s pouch. If the blaze brought Grethori or Nonkind to this place, she did not care. She was leaving. While the flames caught and shot up, Alexeika tightened the girth on Holoc’s pony and mounted. The animal snorted and fought its unfamiliar rider, but she mastered it with iron determination and sent it trotting forth into the forest. The stars in the evening sky gave her the bearings she needed. She turned her pony’s head southeast. There were still pockets of resistance among the towns of Nether, and groups of rebels that she could join. She had learned hard lessons up here in the mountains, and from now on her purpose was clear: To her last breath, she would fight to overthrow King Muncel. If she could regather the scattered rebel forces, she would. If they would listen to her and follow her, then she would lead them. If they would not, she would ride alone. But she would fight as long as it took, and never again would she be soft or defer to the stupidity of others when her judgment was right.
At Savroix, Gavril emerged from his bath and glanced at the window, where eventide shadows were gathering. His servants moved unobtrusively about his luxurious chambers, lighting candles and clearing away the remains of his light meal.
He was supposed to fast until dawn tomorrow, but Gavril believed the rituals of his investiture to be unimportant. In his mind, he had been a man and a knight since the Nonkind attack on the banks of the Charva, when he’d first held Tanengard in his hands and known its power.
The sword lay atop his table, its blade oiled and gleaming in the candlelight. Gavril frowned at it. Today in the combat against Dain, he had felt the sword twist in his hand in order to miss. The sword had betrayed its master to spare Dain. Instead, it had been Gavril who suffered humiliating defeat. He should hate the sword, but one did not hate an object of beauty and perfection. The strong power within this blade was not yet tamed. Excited, Gavril knew he must somehow find a way to master Tanengard and make it truly his. He would learn how to make it serve him and him alone. A soft tapping on the door interrupted his thoughts. Sir Damiend, wearing mail and his church surcoat, peered inside. “Is your highness ready? The cardinal has arrived to escort you.”
Gavril sighed and tightened the belt of his robes. He wore long, soft garments of undyed wool to symbolize his purity. His blond hair, still wet from his bath, was sleeked back from his brow. As required, his feet remained bare. “Yes, I am ready,” he said, and left his chambers.
Cardinal Noncire waited for him in the corridor, along with a guard of men in church surcoats. Their faces looked grim in the torchlight, and Gavril raised his brows at the cardinal. He had no need to ask why they were present. The king’s brush with death this afternoon had unsettled the whole palace. “Let us go,” he announced.
Noncire bowed as deeply as his girth would permit. He gestured toward the stairs, and they went down the winding stone staircase to the ground floor. There, in silence, waited a group of knights in brightly polished armor. Representatives of the various noble houses in current favor with the king, they carried shields draped with pennants of various colors and crests. Their spokesman was Lord Roberd. Grave of mien, he stepped forward in his splendid black armor. “Who is delivered to us?” he asked, adhering to the ritual.
Sir Damiend responded, “We bring one who would be knighted.”
“What is his heart?” Lord Roberd asked.
“It is pure,” Sir Damiend responded.
“What is his mind?”
“It is prepared.”
“What is his spirit?”
“It is willing.”
Gavril listened to the ritual and sighed with boredom. Beside him, Cardinal Noncire placed a hand on his shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Astonished that the cardinal could believe him to be nervous, Gavril glanced at the cardinal’s bland, expressionless face and frowned. Lord Roberd raised his hand. “Let the suppliant come forth.” The church soldiers parted, and Gavril walked forward alone until he stood among the secular knights. His church escort remained behind, except for Noncire, who led them through a short passageway down into the lower regions beneath the palace.
These ways were ancient, with walls made of rough, crudely cut stones. Rusting iron sconces supported torches made of twisted straw soaked in pitch. Their pungent smell made Gavril recall Thirst Hold and its antiquated amenities. In the distance he could hear water dripping. Down the worn, spiraling steps they went, double-file. The air smelled musty, damp, and cold as they descended. Gavril’s bare feet grew chilled.
At the bottom of the steps, they followed another passageway that opened into a vaulted chamber supported by rough-hewn timbers. Candles burned around a stone altar with a kneeling bench. From the shadowy ceiling overhead a cable supported an enormous suspended Circle. Burning candles were fitted into small metal rings affixed to its surface. The Circle appeared to be on fire as it hung there. Despite himself, Gavril was stirred by the sight, and some of his impatience faded. He realized that perhaps the ceremony was not something to be scoffed at after all, that it was grounded in ancient customs, shrouded in mystery, and centered in faith.
When Lord Roberd administered the first series of oaths, Gavril knelt and replied sincerely to each of them. Afterward, Lord Roberd pressed his hands against Gavril’s shoulders in a sort of benediction.
“May you be strong,” he murmured, and left.
The next knight stepped before Gavril and repeated the action. “May you be valiant.”
The third knight approached him. “May you be victorious.” On and on they came, each of them touching his shoulders and pronouncing a blessing for his knighthood. Gavril knelt there on the hard stone, his golden head bowed, until the knights were finished. They bowed to him in silence and returned the way they’d come, up the winding staircase into the shadows. Only Noncire remained, a broad, somber figure whose white robes seemed to glow in the flickering candlelight. “I shall return for you at dawn,” the cardinal said. “The knights will stand vigil at the door at the top of the stairs.” Gavril nodded with impatience. He knew all this. There was no need for his mentor to repeat it.
Yet Noncire lingered, as though reluctant to leave. Gavril recognized the signs by how the cardinal drummed his thick fingers on his yellow sash of office, how he narrowed his dark, beady eyes, how he pursed his fleshy lips. He wanted to talk, but he stood there in silence.
In times past, Gavril had been eager for such private talks with his mentor. He’d admired Noncire’s brilliant, intricate mind. There had been so much to learn from the cardinal, who’d showed him how to manipulate men. Now, however, Gavril felt there was little left for the cardinal to teach him. He was eager to pursue his own dreams, and they did not all coincide with Noncire’s plans for him.
As the silence drew out, Gavril lifted his vivid blue eyes to the cardinal’s dark ones. “My message to you was sent this morning,” he said quietly while above him the candles hissed and flickered.
Noncire bowed. “I received it, your highness.”
“And your answer?”
The cardinal spread out his plump hands. “Must there be an answer today, your highness? Let this ritual be finished first, and then you and I will have a long—a very long—talk indeed about the lady.”
Gavril’s heart closed against this man. He swung his gaze away, aware of his sense of urgency.
“There is a suitable time and place for everything,” Noncire droned on. “Surely your highness understands that—” “Yes, of course I do,” Gavril snapped with fresh impatience. He had written to the cardinal asking for advice on how to escape his obligation to marry Lady Pheresa. His cousin was comely enough in face and figure, but she did not interest him. Full of plans and ambitions after his year’s exile to Thirst, Gavril had many things he wanted to do. But settling down into a betrothal, with all its attendant occasions and ceremonies, was not one of them. “The lady seems to be an excellent choice,” the cardinal was saying. “Her opinions can be molded, and perhaps if your highness will—” “Thank you,” Gavril said furiously. “You make your answer quite clear.” Noncire smiled. “Be not displeased. I will find a way to satisfy all concerned.” “No doubt.” Gavril understood all that Noncire left unsaid. The king favored the match. For Noncire to agree with his majesty meant a bargain had been struck between them. The very thought of it made Gavril grit his teeth. He was no longer a child. Vowing that he would not be manipulated by either of these men, he decided then and there that he absolutely would not have Pheresa. She was too intelligent, too quiet. There was something willful about the curve of her mouth. As a child, he had despised her; he saw no reason to revise his opinion now. But he refused to argue about it further with Noncire. “There’s something else I want to discuss,” he announced.
“Yes, your highness?”
Gavril drew in a deep breath, gathering himself. This must be asked delicately.
He did not want to alarm the cardinal enough to have himself put under scrutiny.
“I have been thinking much, since I escaped death so narrowly.” “Ah, the attack of the Nonkind in Thirst Hold.” Noncire pursed his thick lips and nodded. “I have been expecting this conversation. Yes?” “In the uplands, these creatures attack boldly. They roam and raid at will, with increasing menace. No doubt it is due in part to how weakly Nether is ruled.” “It is true that Nether was once diligent about keeping the creatures at bay,” the cardinal agreed. “We hear rumors that they have forged an alliance with Gant. The king, of course, believes this not, since he and King Muncel are presently working out the details of a new treaty.”
Gavril shrugged off this political news. “The point I am making is that the danger of Nonkind attacks grows worse.”
“Yes, they seem to be. Your highness is naturally distraught over two recent narrow escapes. However, it is our understanding here at court that the uplanders tend to exaggerate the dangers in an effort to maintain the king’s support.”
Anger swept Gavril, and he stared at the cardinal in surprise. Never before had he lost his temper with his old tutor, but the man’s remark was as patronizing as it was stupid. “You forget, lord cardinal, that I have spent a year among these uplanders. I have seen the dangers close-hand. They are not exaggerated.” The cardinal bowed, clearly unconvinced. “From time to time, there are increased outbreaks of trouble. They will cease.”
“What happens if my father does not forge a treaty with Nether?” Gavril asked, unwilling to argue with a stupid viewpoint.
The cardinal smiled. “Imagine the tossing of a stone into a pond of water. The ripples spread out in numerous rings. That is—” “I did not ask for a lesson!” Gavril broke in. “Can you not supply a simple answer?”
The cardinal raised his brows, but did not look provoked. “Politics are never simple,” he said in his soft voice. “Your highness has perhaps forgotten that part of his education.”
The rebuke was delivered in a gentle tone, but there was steely disapproval running beneath the words.
Infuriated, Gavril replied in a voice equally soft, “I have forgotten nothing, lord cardinal.”
They stared at each other, young man and old, both with formidable minds and wills of iron.
“Was the attack on my father this afternoon an attempt to prevent the treaty with Nether?” Gavril asked.
Noncire blinked, but a look of respect entered his dark eyes. “I have not discussed the incident with his majesty. In my opinion, it was.” Gavril nodded to himself. “Then he will sign the treaty with haste, simply to defy his enemies.”
“Perhaps,” the cardinal said in a neutral tone. “Some of its conditions do not please his majesty.”
Gavril had no interest in the conditions of the treaty. “We face increasing danger from Gant and its darkness. Without a strong ally in Nether, our uplands are in jeopardy. Having been attacked personally twice by Nonkind in less than two months, I want”—he paused and drew a deep breath to steady his voice—“I want to learn the ancient arts of the priesthood.”
Noncire’s eyes widened in shock.
“For my own protection,” Gavril said hastily. “As well as for the good of the realm. As a priest-king, one day I will have to govern a realm less settled, less secure than it is now. The future is clear to me: My rule is not likely to be as peaceful as my father’s.”
Noncire said nothing, but simply blinked at Gavril, as though seeing him in a new light. At long last he spoke, and his voice was as smooth as thick cream. “Your highness must allay his fears for the future. Recent events have no doubt proven unsettling, but the realm is hardly in jeopardy. Becoming a priest-king is, perhaps, too extreme an action for our reformed beliefs.” There it was, the barbed criticism concealed like a thorn amidst the cardinal’s flowery words. Gavril frowned. “You know my piety runs deep.” Noncire bowed. “I pride myself on that accomplishment.” “I will believe in Tomias forever,” Gavril said. “But the ability to sense what elements of darkness lie beyond our borders is surely useful.” “Oh, indeed, it does appear so.” Noncire studied Gavril so closely, the prince felt his cheeks grow hot. He ducked his gaze and frowned at the pattern of floor stones. “But the true proof of our faith,” Noncire went on, “is if we—unlike those of lesser religions—can withstand the demons without using magic.” Gavril’s frown deepened into a scowl. He thought with secret shame of the night he’d been attacked by the shapeshifter. He’d held up his Circle and tried to repudiate the creature. Although his father was strong, he had not prevailed against the monster. Even now, Gavril could feel its talons rip through his leg, bringing an agony so terrible the memory still made him sweat. Noncire’s hand clamped on his shoulder. Gavril jumped, his heart pounding as his memories scattered.
“Fear not the past, your highness,” Noncire said in a reassuring voice. “Your future holds only brightness.”
Intensely angry, Gavril ducked away from his hand. “I am not afraid,” he said in a low voice. “I want to increase my knowledge. I want to be—” “Yes, a worthy ambition,” the cardinal agreed a shade too heartily. “Knowledge can be a useful weapon, providing it is the right kind of knowledge. As for this desire to become a priest-king, perhaps your highness should not rush into a decision. Tis a pious aim, but you must consider the line of succession, which lacks strength at the moment. I think you would serve Mandria better by marrying Lady Pheresa and siring a progeny of—” “Her again!” Gavril broke in, rejecting this advice. “Have I a choice in this or is she to be forced on me?”
Noncire bowed. “Merely a suggestion, your highness. If she does not fill your eyes, then there are many other equally suitable maidens for—” “And what of me? What of my plans and vision for Mandria?” Gavril interrupted.